


A Creature of Winter

by Many_Impossible_Things



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Basically a Fix-it, Episode: s07e06 Beyond the Wall, Gen, So I wrote this instead of sleeping, The Author Regrets Nothing, i was sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 15:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11900904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Many_Impossible_Things/pseuds/Many_Impossible_Things
Summary: "All the others listened without question, did as commanded, because they were dead and what had once existed of them in life was no longer. They all listened, but he couldn't hear.Because he was cold, not dead. Because he wasn't a mortal man or bear or other form of appetizer. He was a dragon."





	A Creature of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, that episode made me do this to deal with my overwhelming anguish. It's...something. Dragon POV is a first for me, what can I say.
> 
> I only watch the show and haven't delved into the lore overly much. If I've committed canon-lore blasphemy, I'm sorry and ask that you leave me in my heretical ignorance.
> 
> In short, I regret nothing. Fight me.
> 
> Please enjoy. :D

He was cold.

It wasn’t a feeling he understood. He’d never felt it before now. Mother had been cold when she touched him, so small and wonderful. She hadn’t had dragon fire, though, so she was colder. It was just part of their mother. But it hadn’t been like this. _Never_ like this.

It hadn’t even been like this as he and his siblings were flying her up here. Wind was always brisk, but the fire within was enough to heat it, create updrafts and make all the world comfortable so far above. This was different. It didn’t necessarily hurt. It… He looked about at the world of whiteness around him, felt the wind against his ice-covered spikes. No, he could feel that it was too much a part of him now to hurt him.

But still, his mind grabbed after it without pause, with more energy than he felt in his cold body.

He was the smart one. Even with only his siblings to talk to and their mother to listen to—none of the other small ones were particularly interesting save for that last one who had come with the dark hair and sad expression—Viserion had always been the smart one. He was the smart one, Rhaegal the fiercest even if he didn’t seem it at first, and Drogon the proudest. He thought it a side effect of being female, but she bore it well, just as their mother did. Mother had every right to be proud as a dragon should. Even as tiny as she was, she commanded the world, she knew no fear, she basked beautifully in the reflection of her burning enemies. She called Drogon a boy, but his sister forgave their beloved mother her ignorance, for how was she to know otherwise? He and Rhaegal laughed about it, though, just to anger Drogon. As hatchlings, their mother had needed to break up fights because of it.

He missed her, his mother, and he wondered if she would still love him, cold as he was now.

The desire to return to her came slowly over many weeks, weeks he had to relearn to walk and fly and breathe. His breath was different now, spewing harsh, frigid fountains of ice into the world.

The ice creature was always there, waiting beside his head and staring with its pale eyes. It never spoke, but he could see what it desired. It desired to conquer him, to dominate him, to _ride_ him as no other being in the world had. He could also see in its lifeless eyes that it wished to speak to him and it had some frustration over why it couldn’t. As the weeks went on and his mind grew accustomed to the chill within him, he began to look forward to the irritation in its eyes.

It was the coldest thing of all, the creature and its brethren, all staring with such cold hate as their army pulled his chains forward toward a rising precipice on the horizon. They were dead, he knew almost immediately. They and their army were all dead. That was where their cold came from.

But his was different, because he wasn’t dead.

He remembered being dead. He remembered being dead both times. The first when his egg had gone hard, when whatever proud dragon female had laid him had been taken from him or he had been taken from her care. He had languished inside for long years—or what felt like years to an infant. He remembered the cozy darkness of his egg, waiting for a first mother who would never come. And then, ever so slowly, his egg had gotten hard and so had he. He had become stone. That he remembered before the long dark where he did not exist, before Mother came, before Mother’s fire breathed life back into all three of them and they became hers.

It had been magic, wonderful magic, but he was a dragon. His kind had been around as long as that sort of magic, as long as the first breaths of the entire world. Just as sheep knew to stick to groups so they were easier to hunt and some birds knew to fly to certain places at certain times, he and his siblings knew about magic and the ways of the world. His mother was full of magic. It was what made her their mother.

And he remembered his second death, the one because of the ice creature. He remembered the deep, blazing gout of flame in his throat, comfortable and bloodthirsty and _wonderful_ , right before the spear of cold. As the weeks went on and the precipice got closer, he remembered more and more of his second death: the horrible, terrifying feeling of his fire spilling out of his body, the shrieks of his brother and sister. He could feel against the core spark of fire in his chest his mother’s horror, the screams she didn’t let out from where she sat atop Drogon. He remembered Rhaegal swooping after him, screeching to the world that it would pay for its transgression, that he would _burn_ all that Mother allowed him to avenge his brother.

He remembered his fire extinguishing.

He remembered that and he remembered closing his eyes and the pain going away.

He remembered both his deaths and, just as he knew how to hunt without being taught and could smell magic on the air, he knew that he was not dead. He was not like the creatures or their pets that held his chains. Part of him knew it because the creature couldn’t speak to him.

It could speak to the small ones, giving orders to the men that were no longer anything but their insides and the four-legged beasts that had died long ago, even the enormous men who towered over all the others. He felt sad for those, the large, lumbering ones. In the way he just knew things, he knew that there were no more that lived, as there had once been none of his kind who lived until his mother.

Extinction made him pity the large creatures. Though, at this point he still might’ve eaten one given the chance. He was starving.

All the others listened without question, did as commanded, because they were dead and what had once existed of them in life was no longer. It had gone to wherever those parts went—not even dragons as old as the world knew the answer to that question. They all listened, but he couldn’t hear.

Because he was cold, not _dead_.

Because he wasn’t a mortal man or bear or other form of appetizer. He was a _dragon_. He was his mother’s son and this puny, albeit magical, being had no claim over him.

It had been many weeks when they finally reached the precipice, thousands upon thousands of the creatures’ pets gathering in the space before it. When he looked up, he could feel the little pinpoints of warmth walking about the top. He realized rather belatedly that it wasn’t a precipice, but a wall.

As the smart one, he wouldn’t be mentioning that blunder to either of his siblings when they met again.

Because they would meet again and he would feel his mother’s love again. As more and more of his mind had grown used to the cold and learned to work once more, he knew that she would still love him. She would. It was part of what made her his mother.

He chose to believe that and he continued to when the creature came to stand before him. The same cold frustration in its eyes, it reached out and pressed its frigid hand to his nose. He kept it there and a cold feeling trickled through his scales until he was blinking at the discomfort, the sluggish feeling in his mind that he’d worked so hard to rid himself of crawling through him.

Whatever the creature had hoped to gain by the action had failed, as the frustration was more pronounced than ever when it drew its hand back. It still couldn’t speak to him. As slow as Viserion’s mind felt, part of him that was now a sharp spike of ice in his chest that had once been a spark of flame knew that he was yet his own. The creatures did not own him.

Still, even without words, he felt compelled to respond when the creature pointed to the top of the wall and its pale eyes glowed. He didn’t hear what the creature wanted, but he understood. Taking up his wings, he pulled them against himself and then fanned them out as he began to beat them against the air. It was harder now, without the updraft from his fire, and he had to work that much harder to rise up out of the snow and ice.

Immediately, the pets dropped his chains and those closest fought against the force of his wind to take them off his ankles. He had been chained once, by his beloved mother, and he relished again the feeling of freedom when the weight was taken away. When he looked down, the creature was smiling, a harsh, horrid expression on its icy face. It was wrong.

As he rose high and higher into the air and made toward the wall, ignoring the arrowheads that bounced off his scales, his sluggish mind was filled with the creature’s expression. He did as he knew the creature wished, banking and whirling through the sky as he sent jets of ice down upon the screaming people below.

He wasn’t sure what broke the haze, for a number of things happened at once.

He realized while mid-breath why the creature’s expression made him so uneasy. It was an expression Mother had always worn, but hers had been warm, loving. The creature had done it wrong, hadn’t had those things in it. Mother’s smiles didn’t look like that and Mother’s smiles were those he missed.

And, he felt the rush of air beneath his wings, the incredible freedom of flight, the power of having the whole world beneath him, right at the end of his fire. Even if it was ice now, he felt the power, he felt the joy and the bloodthirst. He was a _dragon_. He was _power_.

And only Mother could direct that power. None other.

His chains were gone. He could find her.

Pulling his breath back, he landed heavily atop the wall. The people who manned it had all already died or hidden and it was surprisingly quiet as he perched upon the edge. Even the pets down below went silent at the command of their masters. The four of them stood there, always in the back, always overseeing instead of doing.

Mother wasn’t like that. She went where they went. She did not order them somewhere she was unwilling to go. Because Mother was fierce. Mother was brave. Mother had fire in her chest.

The fog receded completely and he gazed down at the army and its commanders, at the creature who had given him his second death. Once, it would have been fire that filled his belly, fire and anger and the power to decimate all before him. Now, he still had the latter two, but his fire was gone. The ice wouldn’t hurt the creature or his brethren. Their pets cared about very little, being dead.

Taking in a deep breath, he leaned down and sprayed a layer of ice all along the base of the wall, razor sharp spikes facing toward the sky and the north. He knew the word. It was where the acceptable man had come from. Mother spoke of him often, back before he had died the second time.

The memory goaded his anger and he dwelled on it, on the pain and the grief in his mother’s being, the promise of revenge his brother had given, the sadness from his sister even as she couldn’t fight given her precious cargo. He gave his barricade another layer, thicker than Drogon’s belly and sharper than Rhaegal’s teeth.

The creature stepped forward, leaving his dead horse a few steps behind. The smile was no longer on its face. Rage had replaced it and Viserion felt the ice flare in his chest much as the fire might once have. In a way he hadn’t been since his death, he was fully alive again, himself again, a _dragon_ again.

Crowing in triumph, he shook his spikes, his tail shattering some of the ice in the wall below him, and sent a roar into the heavens.

His voice was different now, sharper, colder, but it was still his own. It echoed off the mountains to the north and it resonated through the ice beneath him and off toward the south. It hadn’t been his intention, but he knew it for the call to his siblings and his mother that it was. 

The creature had killed him once. With the help of Mother and his siblings, he would return the favor and even the magical would know they could not tame a dragon.

He stayed, perched upon the wall even as the army of pets below received new orders and began to hurl themselves against his barrier of ice. The creatures were impatient, it seemed. They had bet upon their control over him…and they had lost. He leaned down and added another layer, freezing bones and rotting flesh where it was trying to break through.

It was almost more amusing than fire. Fire ended things so quickly. He could play with things with this newfound ice.

How long he stayed atop the ice, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t particularly matter, because he could tell that they were coming. Mother was coming. He could feel it in his shard of ice that the ice creature no longer held any sway over.

The men about him, on his side of the wall, continued to cower and he was thankful for it. They would have merely gotten in the way and, as it was, he was devastatingly hungry. And then, finally, he felt the vibration on the air. The steady thump of his siblings’ wings. He closed his eyes, feeling it through him. Rhaegal was ahead, flying faster, was impatient to rain fire down upon the creatures. He sent his voice skyward once more. The ice beneath him shuddered at his power, the little men screamed, and the ice creatures glared. He was ready.

As soon as he saw Rhaegal on the horizon, he spread his wings and hauled himself into the air. He kept his eyes on the ice creature, lest it try to kill one of his siblings the same way it had him. He was ready for it this time. He could do little to the army but slow it and he would be unable to hurt the creatures, but he could protect his siblings and his mother.

Rhaegal screeched a greeting to him once he was close enough and Viserion was surprised to find the acceptable man on his back. They hovered beside one another, his brother asking questions he didn’t have the time to answer, until Drogon and Mother arrived. Had he retained any doubts about whether she would still love him, as frozen and cold as he was now without his fire and with his pale eyes, they were devoured by the heat of the love in her gaze when she looked at him. She smiled at him and the cold within him tingled, perhaps like the fire might’ve warmed before he died.

She exchanged looks with the man whose name he really ought to remember. The man looked uncertainly at his eyes and he recognized their resemblance to the ice creatures’. However, his mother shouted about the noise of Rhaegal’s shrieking threats, the screaming pets below, and the heartbeats of their wings, “It’s him! I can feel it. He’s not one of them.”

Mother still loved him. Mother still believed in him. The ice surged in his throat. Beside him, Drogon poked him with her tail as she often did.

“Aye, are you sure?”

Mother didn’t answer. With a bloodthirsty grin on her face that he had always loved, she leaned into Drogon’s neck and said their favorite word, “ _DRACARYS!_ ”

He couldn’t give her that anymore, but he was sure she would know the word for what he could do as soon as she saw it.

Without any agreement from the man, Rhaegal gave a great crowing screech, pulled his wings in, and dove. Mother seemed fond of him, so Viserion hoped the man held on tightly. His brother was fond of rolls. Waiting for Drogon, he followed them both as they laid waste to the pets on the plain.

He kept his eyes trained on the creature and, as he suspected, it reached for another of its ice spears. This one it aimed for Drogon as Mother shouted with delight as his sister’s breath devoured all. As soon as the creature threw, he dove, spinning until he was in front of his sister, right in the spear’s path. And then…he breathed.

His gout of ice caught the spear midair, surrounding it on all sides and destroying its momentum. The entire chunk abruptly stopped and plunged to the ground below. His ice and the spear shattered upon impact.

The frustration had returned to the creature’s eyes. He roared a challenge at it in response. Only despair and death came to those without the fire who tried to tame dragons. The creature had no fire.

It snatched another spear from one of its brethren, not taking its eyes off of his. Again it hurled it toward Drogon and again he caught it and watched it shatter on the ground with a deep fascination at the new sort of destruction he could cause.

It tried a third time and Viserion wondered why the creature felt such a need to fight its battle _now_ and _here_. He could smell the magic of the wall. Did it have something to do with the creature? Could the creature not cross? Had his job been to destroy the wall so the creatures and all their pets could go forward? Had it felt him slipping away from its control and decided to take out the obstacle before it lost its dragon?

Viserion couldn’t be sure, but he took great joy in angering the creature not only by thwarting its plans but by catching the third spear that had been pointed for Rhaegal, his brother still screaming with battle joy.

Many of the pets were dead and Viserion saw something in the creature’s eyes change. He recognized it, though he had never actually felt it himself. It was an acknowledgement that the day was lost. It was a decision to try again another time. Somehow. Some way.

And that, he couldn’t allow. The creature would come again. It would come again with its pets and try to slay his siblings, slay him again if it could, break him and bend him to its will. And that was even more proof that the creature had no business with dragons, for dragons never retreated, they never showed weakness. They rewarded weakness with death and Viserion burned to give the creature its reward.

He shrieked another challenge as the creature nodded to two of its brethren and turned to get on its horse. His shout caught the attention of his siblings and they knew to take extra care, for they wouldn’t have his protection. Unwilling to be only a spectator, Rhaegal screamed to the sky and twisted around so quickly he nearly lost the man. Drogon turned her attention to the remaining creatures, eying the remaining spears with hatred and further flames.

Despite all its magic, the creature wasn’t fast even with its dead horse that could feel neither cold nor fatigue. It sent its pets after him, though Viserion couldn’t understand why. What could the weak, ground-imprisoned beasts do to him? He ignored them all as Rhaegal devoured them with his flames as they soared.

It was a short hunt, almost disappointing in its briefness. His wings far out-stripped the dead horse’s legs and he felt no fear as he landed hard atop the creature. The horse didn’t make a sound as its bones crunched beneath his claws and Viserion was sorry to miss his favorite part of the hunt: hearing his quarry scream.

By some combination of its magic and guile, the creature avoided that particular end. Instead, it stood before both him and Rhaegal when his brother landed. The man was silent but he could hear his heart pounding in his little human chest. He hadn’t noticed it before, at least not completely, but he thought he heard fire in there just as it burned in Mother’s.

Things were still aside from Drogon’s continued destruction behind them until Rhaegal let the man down. Viserion thought that a stupid choice, but kept his eyes on the creature. It smelt of magic, the smell of it about to use it. As the man drew a metal claw that smelled of ancient fire, the creature summoned another spear to its hand. The man paused, claw held out before him defensively.

Little men and their claws. Viserion exchanged a short glance with Rhaegal and in a second, they agreed. The man spoke as he continued to step forward, unfazed by the pair of dragon steps that walked with him, “It all begins and ends with you, doesn’t it? You’re the first one they turned. Without you, it’s all over.”

The creature had no way to speak to the man in his current state of life, so he merely pulled his frosty white lips back over his teeth, his eyes glowing. Had the creature not killed him once and then tried to subdue his mind, Viserion might have commended its lack of fear.

The smell of magic flared and both he and Rhaegal moved as one. His breath froze the spear of ice and the extras the creature summoned from the ground before they could fly and pierce the man’s or Rhaegal’s hearts. Rhaegal’s burned through its armor, the ice of its undeath steaming around it. Its blue eyes glowed but it didn’t disappear, much to his brother’s annoyance.

With better reflexes than he would’ve given anyone but Mother credit for, the man launched himself forward with an acceptable roar as his enemy was distracted. Rhaegal’s flames swirled about him, ridding him of his heavy furs and armor, but he remained untouched down to the last hair on his head. Just like Mother. His metal claw bit straight into the creature’s chest, coming out the other side.

And nothing happened.

The creature bared its teeth, Rhaegal kept breathing, the man stared in shock and horror, and he kept silencing the pillars of ice that meant to impale the man Mother was fond of and who Rhaegal had chosen. And then…

It shattered.

With a wretched wail that made his scales ring, the ice creature shattered around the man’s claw.

The man staggered back, falling to the snow in his sudden nakedness. Rhaegal promptly threw his head to the skies and screamed in victory. Viserion took a moment to smell at the dark patch of what was something between ash and ice crystals that remained beneath where the creature had just been. He smelled no more magic. The creature was dead, in a more permanent sense this time. Whatever the man’s claw was made of, whatever made it smell of ancient fire, it was enough to destroy the creature’s magic.

Satisfied that the creature had felt his revenge, Viserion turned his attention to the man. Now that he set his cold mind to it, he remembered him being called Jon by Mother. Blinking a few times, he lowered his face until he was even with the man, Jon. He smelled at him and his naked flesh, all that remained of his coverings the parts of his boots that had been touching snow instead of flame.

Yes, he smelled of fire. He had the flame in his chest like Mother. Jon couldn’t stop staring at his eyes. Finally, with Rhaegal still bounding about in triumph behind him instead of helping the man with the cold, Jon reached out a hand. Viserion extended his head the width of the gap until the warm flesh was against his scales. He had missed the feeling of warmth even if he had become used to his cold.

Jon brought his hand up and down in a soothing motion a few times before he said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you died for me.”

Mother had asked it of him, so Viserion had felt no anger except at the ice creature that was now extinct. However, the man seemed genuinely remorseful, as Mother had been when she put them into the dark in the stone city across the sea. Gazing at the man, he saw the scars on his chest, above where the humans’ life sparks resided. It appeared that Jon had died once, too.

In response, he reached forward and gently nudged the scar, though with the size of his nose it was really more of the man’s entire chest. Jon smiled a bit in response. It was a nice expression, like Mother’s. “I suppose we have that in common, don’t we. Still, thank you.”

And then Jon was knocked off his feet as Drogon landed with all her usual grace: absolutely none because she wanted the whole world to know that she had descended back down to their level and now ruled. Preening her spikes some, she gave him a welcoming gaze before leaning down and letting the figure atop her back slip off.

Mother race toward him and promptly wrapped her warm arms around his snout. Sometimes he missed how she had been bigger than them as hatchlings, able to wrap her arms all the way around them and hold them. But, she was still Mother and this was all he had desired for weeks.

“Oh, my smart boy. My Viserion, he turned you but you fought him, didn’t you? My beautiful, clever boy.” She continued with words like that for a while, speaking to him as she only ever did to her children when others weren’t around and as she hadn’t done since he was much smaller. Apparently the fire in Jon’s chest made him worthy to witness such scenes.

Viserion didn’t mind, for he and the man had something in common, and most importantly, Mother still loved him.

-*-  
The many, many weeks that followed were enjoyable.

The man, Jon, took them to his home before returning to the stony island their Mother had made home after crossing the sea. He rather enjoyed the snowy castle with its white trees and its round turrets. For the numerous days they resided there, he took great joy in sleeping atop the largest, curling into a circle like he had as a hatchling and lazing.

The cold no longer bothered him and the wind that blew down from the north, where the precipice had been and the ice creatures’ had met their end, actually felt nice against his scales. When he woke in the mornings, he was covered with a thick layer of frost. It made him jingle and clink as he moved and he became fond of the sound.

The men who lived in Jon’s castle stared at him with wide eyes, though they did the same to his brother and sister. It was more flattering than anything, seeing their fear when their mother stayed so close. She remained closer to him than usual in that first week. Where she had never needed anything special to be near him before with his fire, she had to wear gloves and long sleeves to spend time with him now.

She didn’t mind, so he didn’t either. She even rode with him when they picked themselves up from the remains of the dead army and finished their crows of triumph. Rhaegal had quite vehemently claimed the man as his own and Drogon, with a grace unusual for her, gave up being their mother’s only source of flight without a fight.

Mother and Jon had many discussions in the winter city. He knew because he was witness to nearly all of them for Mother hardly left his side in the beginning. Only when he went to get his first meal in so many hungry weeks did she stay away. For the first days she even slept beside him, bundled in a nest of blankets and clothes. Jon thought it a strange thing, but he said nothing, either from respect for Mother or fear of his pale eyes.

He found he liked the winter city, and not just for its conveniently large turrets for sleeping on. In a way that neither of his siblings was, he felt himself pulled toward the white forest adjacent to the city. There wasn’t much room, but after following the chilly spark in his chest for the first time, he found he could fit well enough before the white tree with red leaves and a face with the same expression from when Mother was sad.

It was peaceful there and the feeling grew within him, settled into his cold. It was nice in a way that needed a better word but had none.

The white dog creature connected to Jon much like he was connected to Mother came to visit him soon after he touched down. He liked Jon, so he chose not to eat the wolf for the sake of their friendship. The wolf was quiet for the most part, merely sniffing extensively before flopping to the ground nearby.

They slept in the sun together often in the days that followed and Viserion decided he enjoyed the company of the wolf. Neither of his siblings appreciated him, but perhaps it was because they were kin of a sort now, he and the wolf. They were both creatures of winter.

He met another on the tenth day, his mother away eating inside her buildings as she preferred. He was in the white forest, the godswood Jon had called it, dozing in the early morning snowfall. Rhaegal and Drogon were both within the walls of the keep, keeping their bodies near the warmest place they could find: one with loud ringing noises and blazing fires where the men made their claws.

A large boy lived within, hammering constantly. The boy hadn’t appreciated his siblings’ newfound interest in his home, but Mother had calmed his worries—at least as much as she was ever able to calm other men’s worries about her children. They could smell the fear that remained. The large boy hid it well, but whenever Viserion sat with his siblings amongst their warmth, they laughed about the boy’s discomfort.

No others in the winter city were like Jon. None of them had the fire beating in their chests like Mother. None approached them if they could help it. The large boy with the hammer spoke to them, but it was out of discomfort. He needed to break the silence with something other than his tools and the breathing of three full-grown dragons. Drogon became quite fond of him, the claw-maker, and that kept Rhaegal from tormenting him too badly.

He had smelled the other creature of winter before while sitting with his siblings, but she had disappeared from sight before anything further could happen. She was slippery, like water over rocks, and he was surprised to see her before him, stepping over the roots of the red-faced tree as he awoke from his nap.

The Jon wolf was with him and she greeted it first, hiding behind it for a moment as she stroked its head. “Hello, Ghost. Jon said he wondered where you’d gone… Making new friends, I guess.”

The whole while she hadn’t taken her eyes off of him. There was no fire in her chest, but she was a hunter, a predator. He could see it in her eyes. She was small, but fierce. Like Mother, but not quite. Her hair was short and her clothes like Jon’s instead of Mother’s. Her claw was smaller than other men’s but he found it amusing. Cracking his long neck, he raised his head and loomed down at her.

She quailed a bit, but she was already so small it didn’t really matter. After a few deep breaths, she straightened her spine, “So, you’re the dragon of ice now.”

She was correct and to corroborate, he took in a deep inhale and filled his chest. Her eyes went wide for the split second she had before he released a small gust of breath that showered her in little ice crystals. Though the ferocity didn’t retreat, a small smile pulled at her lips. She wasn’t prey, her heart that was just as cold as his and the Jon wolf’s kept her from being that, so he settled back down to the earth and allowed her to approach.

Her hand shook as she reached out but once it came to rest on his snout, right between his nostrils, it steadied. She allowed her gaze to leave his for all of a moment as she looked at her little hand pressed against his icy scales. Wonder fought for dominance alongside the ferocity, the distrust.

“Is it true? Is Jon really one of Queen…your mother’s kind?”

He had no way to answer her in a fashion she might understand, so instead he looked at her, gazed deep into her grey eyes that with a bit more glow could’ve been the same shade as his, this little creature of winter. She took her answer from it.

“He is. I…didn’t want to believe it. I liked it better when he was my brother.” She pulled her hand away, though hesitantly, and stepped back. Still her stare didn’t waver, even if she had taught herself to make it subtle, the way she watched. Words continued to come from her mouth and Viserion suspected she did not talk freely with others of her kind like Mother did, like Jon did.

“It was nice when he was my brother, my bastard brother who didn’t belong…like me.” He had become adept as listening to the voices of men over the years, not necessarily because he cared about men in general, but because Mother had such a voice and he loved her. The little creature of winter was sad. She didn’t understand it, but she chose to show that sadness around the only ones like her in the winter city. “We were the outcasts, strange together. But now he belongs somewhere, to the other dragon. I am…happy he found that, but…”

But she missed being alone together. She missed having a sibling like her in the world. He understood that. She needed to understand that she had kin, just not the sort she had grown with. She had ice in her chest where Jon and Mother had fire and all the other men just had blood and meat. She was different than them, but she was like him and the Jon wolf: fierce, lethal, and cold.

The other men had taught her to dislike the cold, to feel wrong because of it. That, too, he understood. He had not liked it at first, though that was mostly the ice creature’s influence, its attempt to dominate. But he had come to love his cold. Wishing he still had his fire was pointless, so he didn’t do it. The little winter creature had not come to that realization yet.

She was his kin and he disliked seeing her unhappy. As she went silent, gazing at his pale eyes, he thought about what men enjoyed, about what Mother enjoyed that might make the winter creature put aside her sadness. Being gentle and comforting was not really within the capabilities of a dragon; it wasn’t his nature. And besides, he didn’t think that the little winter creature would find comfort in what other men did. 

Now that he thought about it, he was hungry. He hadn’t hunted in a few days as he found that he didn’t need to eat as much as his siblings anymore. He supposed their fire burned through the meat in their bellies faster than his cold did. The little creature was fierce, she was a hunter. And, as Drogon proudly lorded over them whenever she was feeling particularly tiresome, Mother loved flying. Jon did, too, though Rhaegal had laughed at how long it took him to stop fearing it. Rhaegal was reckless when he flew, so Viserion thought it wise on Jon’s part to keep a healthy caution, but both the humans who had flown had enjoyed it. They both had the fire, but he had the inkling that the little winter creature would find it equally enjoyable.

He wasn’t choosing her as Rhaegal had chosen Jon or Drogon had chosen Mother—though none of them would have ever denied Mother anything. It was not like that. He was just offering one of his winter kin a respite from her sadness in a way he knew how.

Shaking his clinking scales, he brought his slinking body upright. Blinking against what remained of his sleep, he shook his head before leaning it down to her level again. Her eyes had gone wide again, her hand on her claw. Fierce, indeed. Lowering his body as low to the ground as he could, he turned his shoulders toward her and gazed at her once more.

The ice creature north of the wall had never been able to speak to him like it wanted, but these two creatures of winter he stood with had a connection to him the ice creature had not. It knew no words, the bond, but it did not need them. A few moments of his blue gaze at her conveyed his intentions and, with a determined mouth that had only shut after being open in shock those long moments, she scrambled forward.

Her hands were warm like Mother’s and Jon’s, though at the same time not, as she grasped his spikes and pulled herself to his shoulders where his neck began. He waited until she had leaned forward as Mother did before spreading his great wings and hauling them into the air. It was still more difficult for him to fly than his siblings without his fire, but he had become stronger for it. Once aloft, he was faster now, could fly longer without tiring.

The winter creature let out a shriek of excitement as he began their ascent and he smiled at the sound. Fierce, lethal, cold, and fearless. She truly was his kin.

Both Rhaegal and Drogon raised their heads at the sound of his wings and he roared a greeting to them, an explanation that he was going to hunt. They replied in kind and the exchange had gathered the attention of the winter keep’s men, all of them stopping in sudden fear as they were reminded what resided within their walls.

The winter creature on his back noted with a joy in her that he could never have predicted from her earlier demeanor, “There’s Jon!”

His eyes roved over the buildings and walls and, following the feel of Jon’s fire, it wasn’t difficult to find him standing upon the stairs before the large doors Mother disappeared into when she went to eat and do her other Mother things. Jon was staring at them, though it was his normal gaze, one that still held wonder even though he now flew upon the back of one of the dragons.

Viserion thought it only kind, given his friendship with Jon and their things in common, to ensure he knew that his little winter sister had not come to harm but was gone hunting. Flapping a few more times to gain height, he pulled his wings in and circled the winter city, the burden upon his back easily visible. Jon’s stare changed then and the winter creature shrieked happily again, like a fledgling learning for the first time that there was more to flying than simple up and down.

Then, catching a northern wind, he extended his wings and they soared south in search of worthy quarry.

-*-  
He spent all his other hunting trips while in the winter city with the little creature of winter, his smallest kin.

It had caused unrest amongst the men for reasons he didn’t understand, nor did he care enough to try to. When they had returned, Mother and Jon had both run into the godswood as he descended.

He was pleasantly full on a small herd of deer and his little kin had aided him in his hunt, spotting stragglers and taking the same amount of joy in the pursuit that any dragon might have. Fierce, lethal, cold, and fearless. He wondered vaguely what it was she hunted, for she ate as Mother ate, inside and at tables with food long dead. Perhaps she would take him on one of her hunting trips, for he was curious.

Both Mother and Jon had stared at them, the little creature perched on his back still. Mother didn’t seem upset, merely confused. When neither of them moved, the Jon wolf trotted up and greeted him with his usual sniffing before looking to the little creature. Craning his neck, he saw that there was dread in her eyes and he wondered if it was a product of her not having accepted her cold yet.

Nevertheless, she slid down from his back. Once her boots touched snow, her hand returned to the hilt of her claw. He knew she meant no harm to Mother, he saw the action for what it was: an effort to lessen her discomfort with something that made her feel safe. A truly fierce creature, it was her claw that made her feel safe.

Ignoring the strangeness of humans because his belly was full and he wanted nothing more than a good nap, he curled into his usual shape for sleeping before the sad tree. The Jon wolf joined him without fuss soon after. Still, none of the men had said anything, not until his little kin came to where he had rested his head. She smiled again and nodded with a formal bow that was different than the ones the other men gave, “Thank you.”

In response, he touched his snout to her chest before lying back down. His fullness was pulling at his attention but he listened well enough as she turned and faced Jon and Mother.

Jon spoke first, “Wh-where? How?”

The little winter creature answered briskly, her discomfort well-hidden but her cold as sharp as ever. “Viserion went on a hunt. He invited me to come along.”

Mother stepped forward, closer to the little creature. Her eyes were discerning, all-knowing, like when she stared at the men beneath her and tried to delve into the secrets they did not want to tell her. Mother was quite good at that. “There is no way, is there? That you are a Targeryan.”

For an answer to this, she looked over her shoulder to Jon. “Only Targeryans have ever ridden dragons.”

Jon shrugged, “No. I was there the day she was born. Arya is a Stark.”

His little kin disliked being spoken of as if she wasn’t there and she said simply, with an edge of irritation, “Targeryans are blood and fire.”

Mother stiffened at the words, why he didn’t understand for it was true and something to be proud of. Before she could say anything, the winter creature added, “Your other dragons, they are fire. You two, you’re Targeryans. Fire. He isn’t, not anymore. He’s ice, winter. I’m a Stark. Winter.”

It had little to do with her being a Stark, for he had been presented to the other Starks and felt no kinship with them, but for a human it was as accurate an explanation as there could be. With that said, the little winter creature gave another of her foreign bows and left the godswood.

Jon followed soon after, after much hushed whispering between him and Mother, though the Jon wolf remained. Mother was the last. A smile had come over her face as she approached him, reached her gloved hand up to rub the side of his head.

“You are different, my beautiful Viserion,” she whispered, “but you are still my child and I love you.”

That had been the end of Mother and Jon questioning his hunting companion, though the other men still whispered about it. His littlest kin didn’t care and the worries of men other than Mother were beneath his notice, so they continued their hunting partnership.

When they left the winter city, he was saddened to leave the winter creature behind. The Jon wolf accompanied them, loping alongside a group of horses, men, and wagons that followed after them overland. Rhaegal took Jon and Drogon took Mother and he flew alone as they slowly made their way back to the stone island Mother had made home.

It was still a good place and the sunbaths he took in the cold, salty wind were even more satisfying than when he’d had his fire. The Jon wolf remained his friend and napping companion. He decided, however, that he would return to the winter city and his littlest kin as he wished. The warmth where Mother wanted to live was nice, but part of him yearned for the cold. It wasn’t a strong enough desire to leave Mother, far from it, but he knew it was an itch he would need to scratch on occasion.

More weeks were spent on the stone island, punctuated with other men coming in their boats to visit Mother and Jon. He and his siblings were introduced to these people, as Mother enjoyed doing. She enjoyed showing off her children and they enjoyed the smell of fear from those who would bow before their mother.

Occasionally, the three of them set out with Mother and Jon to wreak havoc on the wooden boats men used to cross water. They bore black sails with a yellow sea creature emblazoned upon the middle. The creature—if it was real—looked appetizing and he, Rhaegal, and Drogon discussed how they might catch one. 

They were amusing hunting trips, these excursions. He still had no rider, as he preferred, and he went in first. Much to his delight, his pale eyes still struck fear into those who had never met the ice creatures or their pets. He took pleasure in the screams they elicited as he swooped down from high above and stilled the sea upon which the boats sailed. His ice froze the waves and captured the boats, leaving them helpless to defend against his siblings who barreled down after him. He incapacitated their prey while his siblings went in for the kills.

They were lovely, those hunting trips. The men aboard their boats screamed loudly and the boats themselves groaned as their masters couldn’t save them.

Many of the hunting trips occurred before there were many men with all manner of claws on Mother’s island. They had their own boats and one day, while he was watching them from a cliff far above with his siblings, Mother and Jon approached. Jon had his claw at his side and Mother wore the expression that said destruction was about to be unleashed.

Before either of them said a word, he and his siblings rose in anticipation.

Mother smiled at them, “We go to retake what is ours, my children. All our suffering has come to this.”

She stepped between them and strode to the edge of the cliff. From the corner of his eye, Viserion could see Jon come to stand at Rhaegal’s leg, hand upon the green scales. His eyes were on Mother, however, and a smile was on his face, a grim one, a proud one. Mother was very fond of Jon and Viserion had become fond of him as well, not only because of what they had in common. As had become his duty, he would protect not only Mother and his siblings, but Jon, too, from danger as they went into battle.

As Mother came to the edge of the cliff, her children about her, all the men below stilled and stared. Taking advantage of the attention, Drogon let out a roar to the skies that likely shook their knees. He and Rhaegal exchanged a look before Mother spoke. One hand on Drogon’s neck and one on his, she said with all the authority their mother commanded, “ _Dracarys_.”

Looking to him, she added fondly, “ _Suvion_.”

She had learned his word and he reveled in it as much as he had when he shared a word with his siblings. As one, they all pointed their mouths skyward, took in deep breaths, and released gouts of flame and ice large enough to awe the men below. It usually inspired fear, but this time the men, Mother’s pets, gave the greatest roar he had ever heard from men. 

Mother exchanged a long, heavy gaze with Jon before climbing onto Drogon’s shoulders and Jon did the same to Rhaegal’s. While they mounted, he shook out his wings and clinking scales. As it took him longer, he pulled himself aloft and circled about the ships before his siblings joined him.

Scurrying quickly, the men below all got onto their boats and began to sail after them. They stayed above the boats as they went, much as they had when Mother first brought them across the sea. The trip was shorter. Much shorter. They had a few more excursions to keep Mother’s boats safe, but they had burned down nearly all the of the sea creature boats in the weeks before.

It wasn’t long before a large red city rose up on the coast before them. Its towered gleamed and Rhaegal immediately expressed an interest in landing atop one. Before them were rows of boats, surrounding the entrance to the city from the sea. Atop the walls, someone else’s men pets ran about, standing behind large structures with short little claws at the front. Drogon immediately told them that it was the flying claw that had hurt her when she went into battle with Mother for the first time in this land.

He immediately took note of where they all were. It was his job now, his role. His siblings couldn’t melt the metal claws sent toward them in midair, but he could freeze them where they flew.

At the word from their Mother—“ _DRACARYS!_ ”—his siblings let loose upon the armada waiting below. The screams were only drowned out by the roaring flames.

He stuck close to his siblings’ sides, always keeping himself between them and the claw-firing weapons. The blood joy of the hunt, of the fight, of _destruction_ overtook his mind. As his siblings destroyed all below, he breathed deeply and caught all the metal claws shot at them.

Far too quickly, it was over. Before his wings had even grown tired or his ice became harder to pull from his chest. Before Rhaegal had been properly enjoying himself by the sounds of his annoyed screeching when all below was flame on the water. Mother’s pets had sailed through the destroyed boats, aided by Drogon’s wings to push the flaming vessels out of the way. Her pets were on the beach, armed with their claws and waiting with anticipation to break through the walls.

Following her call, he landed atop the walls with Drogon and Rhaegal. The dark shadow of his sister took up the middle, the green of his brother was on the right, and he glimmered in the sunlight, the sun bright on his snow-like scales. They were magnificent and all the enemy pets below knew it.

The claw-throwers had long ago been destroyed, either by him or Rhaegal. Though it was Jon on his back, the man had really very little control over what his brother did. Mother said fire, so Rhaegal burned. There was little else to his brother’s logic when the blood joy was upon him.

Drogon roared and they joined her until the walls beneath them were quaking at their might. Mother sat up straighter then, Drogon lowering her head so that all might see the goddess upon her back.

She raised her voice into a roar that made him proud she was his mother and bellowed to the pets below, “I am Daenerys Targeryan, rightful Queen of the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Six Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, and,” she paused and smiled, “Mother of Dragons! I have come with Jon Targeryan, King in the North, to rid Westeros of the false queen who sits upon my throne, Cersei Lannister. I have come to break the wheel that had flattened so many of my people. I have come to make a better world than the one she would have you continue to suffer in!”

There was much talking occurring and not much dying, but Mother liked talking. He kept an eye on the pets below. Most had already thrown down their claws and fallen to the ground. The fiery deaths of their friends in the boats seemed to have taken away their will to be Mother’s enemies.

“I do not wish to set fire to this city! Its people have done no harm to me. Its walls are not mine to burn, but mine to maintain, to keep strong so that the people within remain safe. Do not hinder me on my way to take what is mine and I will do no harm. Put down your weapons now, open the gates to the armies of the North and the Unsullied and no harm will befall you. Stand in the way of me, my dragons, and my ally and you will die in either flames or ice. Choose now, for I make for the Iron Throne!”

She leaned forward and Drogon let out another scream that they echoed. It took him longer to get into the air, but he wasn’t far behind his siblings as they rose above the streets, the little houses and little pets, and made for the citadel at the head of the city. Behind them, he heard heavy gates being opened. The screaming of death did not follow it. It appeared the enemy’s pets had chosen to become Mother’s.

The red castle stood out by itself, surrounded by water on most sides. Viserion supposed that against any but dragons it was a wise choice in nest-placement. More pets surrounded it, holding their claws. They had not heard Mother’s words and had not had them relayed to them yet. It was quick work to rid the castle’s fortifications of the claw-throwers. Only the tiny claws flew at them after that and he and his siblings ignored them. Hovering in the air above the castle, Mother shouted to Jon, “What are we going to do? It’s not their fault they haven’t heard yet!”

“We can just wait here,” Jon replied, doing his level best to keep Rhaegal from surging downward and devouring the pets. “The men back this far will be her most loyal Lannisters, but we can just wait.”

“No. We’ve come this far. I won’t allow her to regroup or send ravens or anything else. Our information said she had emptied the Keep, sent everyone to fight.” Who this she was was irrelevant and he waited for Mother’s word. He could hear the blood joy in her voice, so he suspected it would be a word he liked. “It’s my roof. I’ll simply fix it! Viserion, _suvion_!”

He followed her pointed hand and dove. Pulling in a great breath, he sent it at the tiled roof of the hall below him. The coating of ice glittered brilliantly in the sunlight, for all of the second he allowed it to remain before he bashed it with his tail. It took three great hits and with the final, he landed upon it. Unused to such cold, the materials went brittle and shattered beneath him.

A hole great enough to allow his siblings and him through gaped open below him. Remnants of some pets in red and golden armor dotted the floor beneath, but he paid them no mind. They weren’t Mother’s pets. He drew back and allowed Drogon to descend first, then Rhaegal. When he landed, the space was decidedly small. What remained of the roof was high enough, but this hall was not made for more than one of his kind.

Mother was speaking, what sounded like her speech from before. The red and gold men had mostly dropped their weapons. He found the ones who hadn’t and bared his teeth at them. He could smell no magic here, only men. There was a remnant of magic, however. A woman responded to Mother, one with short light hair, shorter than the little creature of winter’s. She sat on a chair of metal that smelled of ancient fire. Perhaps that was the source of the waft of magic.

“At last, the Dragon Queen has come to end me. I’m surprised you haven’t brought my little brother to gloat. My other has already deserted me.”

More words. Always words. 

It wasn’t strong but the smell of magic, that tiny remnant prickled at his nose. Neither of his siblings seemed to notice and that made sense. The cold had sharpened his senses. Ice had no scent, not like fire, not like burning. He didn’t have to work to get past his own scent like they did. Besides, they each had their riders to worry after. Mother was still speaking to the angry woman and Jon had drawn his claw.

His tail flicking in agitation, he shoved past Rhaegal in an effort to find the magic. His brother snorted in annoyance, but said nothing as he let Jon down to the floor following Mother.

“You have nowhere to run, Cersei. You will be judged for your crimes.”

“Ah, the little girl who Robert couldn’t manage to kill as a babe is going to judge me for my crimes.”

At first he thought it was the enormous man standing before the woman, all of him hidden beneath golden armor and a golden helm. Though not in the same way, he was like the ice creature’s pets. He was dead yet still walked. Viserion swung his snout at the large man. He made no move, though it caused the rest of the hall to fall to silence. Mother stared at him with confusion, but did not tell him to stop.

He was the smart one and she knew it.

Watching him continue to smell, Jon stepped in front of Mother with his claw drawn.

“What about your crimes, Mother of Dragons?” The woman laughed, “And others said I was unnatural for bearing my brother’s children. At least my children have all been human, haven’t been _animals_.”

The smell was near. The magic. It wasn’t quite magic, not like Mother carried, not Jon or the little creature of winter. It was different. It was man’s magic and that made it more difficult.

Drogon rumbled angrily in her throat. She knew what words the woman had just said. She knew an insult and she did not take insults well.

As Mother laid a soothing hand on Drogon’s face, Jon replied icily, “Sansa would say differently. Your eldest had the mind of a rabid dog. I would ask if that tendency came from your brother or from you, but I’ve met both your brothers. Neither of them is insane.”

It was a bit weak as threats went. Jon didn’t use his claw, which made it a weak threat, but Viserion ignored it. The woman kept talking, saying things about Mother until both Drogon and Rhaegal were drawing in breath.

The woman smiled just as he found it, concealed in a corner by a man in dark robes. Drogon’s chest began to glow with her gathering fire. It was already on its way up her throat when the woman laughed. “You burned my army and a Lannister always pays her debts. Enjoy ruling the ashes, Dragon Queen.”

The robed man moved then, a tiny spark of fire igniting in his hand right above where the smell of the man’s magic was strongest. More quickly than his sister, Viserion drew his breath and launched a wash of ice at the man. He would’ve died instantly, but he cared very little about the man. What mattered was that the flame in his hand died. Not more than a tiny flash of green fire ignited before it was drowned. None were allowed to make fire around Mother but them, not that kind of fire, not fire that smelled like that.

All was still for a few moments as Mother made Drogon swallow her fire. Instead, his sister comforted herself by taking the dead golden man for a snack as he was all that remained between Mother and the woman, and he was the closest.

Jon walked before Mother, his claw still drawn. Mother demanded of her, “My family is made of more than just fire, Lannister. Surrender to me.”

The woman smiled in the same way that the ice creature had before its destruction. “It seems so. Still, I’ll thank your father for the idea when I see him in the Seven Hells.”

She then took a deep draught of the wine beside her. There was so little of it that he hardly noticed it, but it too smelled of man’s magic. Soon, she just smelled of death.

After that, there was just more talking. Talking and bowing and so very many pets crowding into the hall.

-*-  
There were more pets in Mother’s new home than in any place they had ever been before. Or perhaps he had just never been so big around so many pets. He found it tiresome and he found the sun too hot and the sea wind too mild.

There was little more fighting that he or his siblings did after he froze the woman’s robed man. They stood through much talking by their Mother. One of them always sat beside her in the hall with the broken roof where she did a good deal of her talking.

Jon remained close by. The man smaller than the little creature of winter arrived, as did all the others who had followed his mother. They came and the men in the boats stayed and little pets from all directions flooded into the city. If this was to be Mother’s new home, he found he preferred her others. He contemplated visiting the winter city again. He would miss Mother and Drogon and Rhaegal and Jon while he was gone, but he slept more than usual now, always tired in the heat.

The dreaded Winter that the men often spoke of was said to be coming closer to the South every day, the reason why so many had come to Mother’s new home. But it wasn’t coming quickly enough.

After a few more weeks—there were a few exciting moments of fighting and a few in which Drogon got to show off her flames to those who gathered to see an enemy pet die—Mother and Jon were still very busy and he was still very tired. The red city had a white forest like the winter city and it still called to him as a place of peace. With all the boughs, it was also cooler down before the face tree.

He was sleeping there when a hand upon his snout woke him. Blinking his pale eyes open, he saw the little creature of winter and the Jon wolf before him. His kin had come to him. Though he loved his siblings and his Mother, he was glad of their presence, was glad to be alone together with them.

The little creature smiled at him, “It’s bloody hot here, isn’t it? I feel like those brothers of yours are breathing on me. If it wasn’t for Jon’s wedding, I wouldn’t be caught dead this far south again, no matter how Gendry whinges about the winter.”

If he remembered rightly, Gendry was the name of the large claw-maker boy Drogon had become fond of.

He nudged her chest in fond greeting and she stumbled to the ground at the force of it. She easily caught herself, fierce and lethal as she was, and didn’t seem to mind. She still had her tiny claw on her hip.

“Come on,” she urged, looking upward. “Let’s go hunting. It’ll be cold up there, at least.”

And so he leaned down for her to climb atop his shoulders and fought against his tired limbs until they were aloft. He hunted with her, reveling in the cold wind far above. She remained, his littlest winter kin, when they returned, playing with her claw in the growing darkness as he and the Jon wolf settled down to nap before the face tree.

He awoke in the darkness of that night to a warm, gloved hand on his face. Mother stood before him, smiling at him in the light of a lantern. The Jon wolf was still nearby, gazing at her drowsily with his red eyes, and the little creature of winter was beneath the tree. She was awake but Mother didn’t know that. His littlest kin was too sly a predator for Mother to know, but she would do Mother no harm.

Mother looked at the three of them and smiled once more before leaning in and pressing a kiss to her palm and then pressing her palm against his scales. “Sleep well, my winter child.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, drop a comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoyed. :)


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